


Aftermarth

by Tyranno



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, attempted rape (off-screen), fluff that is borderline sad tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:39:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7743697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kokachin finds herself taking care of Marco one evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermarth

**Author's Note:**

> [[PROMPT]](https://marcopolokinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1298.html?thread=23058#cmt23058)
> 
>  
> 
> im kinda painfully aware that the last, like, 4 or so stories in the marco polo tag are all mine but that won't stop me writing

The celebration was loud and wild, the roaring and stomping of men rose up into the pitch-black heavens with the twisting smoke. Men danced and women laughed, the fire crackled and the air smelled strongly of airag. It had been a hard victory, harder than even these war-battered soldiers were used to, and they danced mainly to try to forget it. In their pauses, though, the moments where they glanced out at the bleak horizons, Kokachin could see the stain of battle in their eyes. 

It didn't take long for her to escape the humid _ger_ s and slip away into the cold and quiet night. 

The trees were thick and foreboding, and even up close Kokachin found it hard to tell one from another. For a moment, she wanted more than anything to slip between them, to disappear into the night. She walked on. She spotted the stables in the distance and headed towards them.

A strangled cry cut the silence of the night and Kokachin broke into a run. 

“Stop!” Kokachin shouted, rounding the back of the stables, “Stop now!” 

She could see barely anything. Dark shapes lumbered upwards, shifting to split into men. Below them, something whimpered. 

“What do you want?” One of the men snarled, advancing on her. 

Kokachin stepped back, into the light. 

The men froze. 

They stood like that for a moment, dumbstruck. 

“L-Lady Kokachin I—...” One of them yelped, shrinking backwards. Another man snatched his arm and sprinted away, the third scrambling after them. 

She watched them go with a mild interest, before unhooking a lantern from the front of the stables and looking around the back. 

Yellow light pooled over a body so pale and bloody for a moment Kokachin feared it was a corpse. It shifted, a familiar face squinted up at her. 

“Kokachin?” He croaked. 

“Marco,” She breathed, dropping to his side. His skin was even paler than usual, ghoulish against the dark rings under his eyes. Black blood crusted his jaw and the corners of his mouth. He looked awful. 

She worked an arm under him, lifting him up. “Come on, Marco,” she murmured, tugging him upwards. “I cannot carry you back. You've got to help.” 

With a soft sigh he stood up, stumbling like a newborn. His breath smelled strongly of airag and he seemed reluctant to move, but he let himself be steered towards Kokachin's _ger_. 

She glanced around cautiously before tugging him through the opening. Inside, it was warmer and brighter, and for once it was a balm to Kokachin's nerves. She pushed Marco onto the furs, setting some water to warm by the fire. 

Marco watched numbly, his lips parted. His breath whistled slightly, and she hoped his lungs weren't bleeding. She wondered if she should have brought him straight to a healer, but part of her knew he would hate it, to be vulnerable around so many strangers. A side effect of living in the Khanate. 

“What happened?” She asked, trying to keep her voice light. 

Marco's gaze shifted to her, hardly focusing, “I suppose they mistook me for a concubine.” 

Kokachin pursed her lips. It pained her, to see him like this. His eyes were dull, his breathing shallow, he was thinner, too, than she remembered. He looked like he was dying. She ran a clothe under the warm water, starting to wipe away the crusted blood from his face. The skin underneath was washed out, but warm. She worked slowly, gently, and he watched her, just as cautious.

Kokachin washed the clothe again, beginning to work on the knife wounds that still bled sluggishly across his collarbones. He shivered, slightly, under her fingers. 

“It was my fault. I have been drinking too much,” Marco muttered, half to himself. “Something like this was bound to happen.” 

Kokachin cupped the side of his face, eyes hard. She shook her head, firmly. 

Marco frowned, somewhat mollified, “It's still my fault I was drinking.” 

“Even that, I would have disagree,” Kokachin sighed and smiled sadly, “You feel too much, and think too little. It is the way you were made. It was bound to happen, this place wearing you away.” 

Marco huffed, grinning, “You are calling me a benevolent fool.” 

“Sometimes I think there is no greater compliment.” 

“I can think of a few,” Marco smiled up at her, “Any comparison to you, for instance.” 

Kokachin smiled and pressed a cold hand to his warm chest, over his heart. It was these moments she treasured. The light dancing in his eyes like the sun on the ocean. Feeling his heart beat under her fingers. The solid presence of him anchored her. Sometimes, it was only these moments that kept her alive. As she watched the colour come back into his features and him smile genuinely for the first time in months, she knew it was the same for him too.


End file.
